Five Times Erestor Didn't Curse And The One Time He Did
by Grey-Rain-Cloud
Summary: He prided himself on his self-control. He had gotten through many situations with his dignity and self-respect intact, and then was able to scoff at how the idiots around him acted. These are five such instances. But everyone slips; puts a blemish on their once stunning record of behavior. This is also Erestor's one moment of indulging his more... vulgar... urges.
1. Celebrian Giving Birth

1- Celebrian Giving Birth

_It really should be Elrond in my position,_ Erestor thought unhappily. But no, Elrond had to take the easier job of Healer, sticking Erestor with holding Celebrian's hand while she was going through the birthing process. Erestor didn't blame Celebrian at all—he imagined that pushing out a watermelon-sized child was difficult work—no, he completely blamed her husband. And that Erestor was the one with his hand getting squeezed made no sense: Glorfindel was just outside the room, and his hands were much fatter—Erestor thought that they were positively mannish—so why were Erestor's delicate, bird-boned, quill-writing hands the ones that were being tortured?

Elrond had called Erestor in though, and like a fool, Erestor had come. _Like a no-brained lap-dog,_ Erestor thought peevishly.

Celebrian screamed.

The grip on his hand increased painfully.

A high-pitched wailing filled the room, making Erestor wince.

"It's a boy." Elrond announced, quickly cleaning the child and handing it off to its mother—who had thankfully let go of Erestors hand. Erestor looked at the baby and kept his expression carefully blank. Its face was red and wrinkling, squished and deformed.

"He's beautiful." Celebrian breathed.

_No he's not,_ Erestor thought privately. _He looks worse than my hand feels: positively ghastly._

"I know." Elrond agreed, looking down at his wife and dark haired son with an enamoured expression. "His name?"

"Elladan." She gave a besotted smile before her features contorted in pain. "Elrond! Another is coming!" She grabbed Erestor's hand again—he almost groaned aloud: he had _just_ earned some relief. Elrond called orders to his assistants and rushed to get more supplies and basically acted like a chicken with its head cut off while Erestor was being _tortured_! And it was all because of _him_!

Celebrian screamed again—something about it being all Elrond's fault, with which Erestor completely agreed—but he was too busy with the fact that a _Troll_ was sitting on his hand, slowly squishing it into jelly. _So_ slowly.

There was a crack that reverberated through Erestor's arm up to his throbbing skull—all the screaming was giving him a headache—but nobody paid any mind to his plight, because at that same moment another wailing, identical to the last, erupted from a tiny set of lungs that were _obviously_ in top condition. Celebrian fell back onto the pillows behind her, even more exhausted then before, while Elrond repeated the same cleaning process as with Elladan, and handed the new terror—Erestor's thoughts were quickly getting more and more uncharitable—to the mother, who had not even let go of the first baby.

While Elladan had been 'beautiful,' the second child—Elrohir, they named him—was decided to be 'handsome.' The twice-new parents cooed and awed over their children, but as Erestor walked from the room, cradling his broken hand-knuckles-fingers, amazed that he had not made it so the first words the twins heard were vulgar, all he thought about the second born was,

_He looks overcooked._


	2. Glorfindel Stepped on his Foot

2- Glorfindel Stepped on his Foot

Glorfindel had just returned from scouting the outskirts of Rivendell, and he was exhausted. His golden hair—usually so neat and perfect and luscious—was heavy with grease and dirt, with many knots that Glorfindel knew were going to take hours to untangle. His body, he knew, smelled disgusting. Like Orc and sweat and… _other things_. He was very much looking forward to a thorough scrubbing with his lavender scented soap.

He yawned, wondering if he would fall asleep in the water and drown himself. He decided it was worth it to die a second time if it meant being clean. Glorfindel yawned again, shut his eyes tightly—all the while praying that he would have the strength to reopen them and not pass out in the hallway smelling of Orc, sweat, and… _other things_—and stumbled along.

He heard a sharp inhale of pain, and Glorfindel's warrior instinct flared. Eyes snapped open, feet planted firmly on the ground. Glorfindel surveyed around him, and saw only Erestor, who was standing outside Elrond's study, and was looking at the golden haired elf with an expressionless face. It was his eyes that showed the pain and fury he was feeling.

"_Move_." Erestor hissed in a dangerously quiet voice that demanded the order to be carried out immediately.

Unfortunately, Glorfindel was tired and only stared at him uncomprehendingly. Stupidly. "Huh?"

Erestor's nostrils flared in rage, but he only said through pursed lips, "_Move. Your. Foot_."

Glorfindel looked down and saw that one of his booted feet was standing on one of Erestor's slipper clad feet. "Oh!" He lifted his foot off the other elf's hastily. "Forgive me Erestor! I was not paying attention."

Erestor said nothing, only sniffed and wrinkled his nose. He looked Glorfindel up and down. Glorfindel just barely resisted fidgeting. Erestor opened his mouth, then closed it with an audible click. His lips thinned. "Go wash yourself." Was all he said, but had Glorfindel had all of his mental facilities, he would have heard Erestor, who was limping in the opposite direction Glorfindel himself was going, mutter to himself, "_Mannish feet_."


	3. Arwen Elbows Erestor

3- Arwen Elbows Erestor

After teaching the twins, Erestor thought that it could not get any worse. Surely the glue that affixed him to his chair, the cold buckets of water that drenched him when he opened the door to his study, and the _appalling_ grammatical errors were enough punishment from the Valar? Erestor certainly hadn't expected _Arwen_ to be worse than her brothers _combined_.

"Arwen! Let me see your hands!" He snapped.

"No!" She replied obstinately.

"I know you've written the answers on your hands, so you needn't hide them, just go wash them off!" Arwen would not study for her tests—even _Elrohir_ and _Elladan_ had studied, however briefly—so the night before she would write the important facts and dates all over her hands and forearms. She thought she was being clever, that Erestor would not _notice_ when she came into class wearing one of her dresses with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow and covered in ink. _She was wrong._

"Arwen. Do I need to get your father?"

Her eyes went wide, as if Erestor did not ask her this every time this occurred, and she stood up quickly and rushed up to Erestor. Her head just passed the height of his waist, and when her small and meaty hands fisted his tunic, her elbows came somewhere… _unfortunate_. "Oh please don't get _ada_—"

She did not get to say anything else though, because Erestor collapsed to his knees, grasping at his—_ahem_. He pushed Arwen away in the process.

"Erestor!"

He groaned and wheezed and would have moaned if not for his dignity. "Get out." Erestor ground out with difficulty.

"Erestor—"

"You're dismissed! Be gone!"

"My test—"

"Tomorrow!"

Arwen scurried out, and Erestor finally collapsed fully, curling up into a ball on his side. He concentrated on breathing. The only coherent thought that he had was: _I need a vacation._


	4. Elrond Spills Ink

4- Elrond Spills Ink

Every so often a book or scroll or even just a loose leaf of parchment would become worn, torn, and basically needed to be rewritten before it became illegible. The easiest was the parchment—it was only one piece after all. Scrolls weren't that bad, but a tad more time consuming if you wanted to get it perfect—which Erestor always wanted to, and since this job was given to him because nobody else was _brave_ enough to do it, all of the scrolls were so perfect that the only reason people knew that they were not the original version was because it was not _crumbling_ in their hands. Not that anyone thanked him; no, when people ventures into the library to read their favorite scroll and found that they were no longer afraid to touch it, their response was: "Thank the Valar." As if they had done anything.

But that was not the worst part of the job. The worst, most horrific, _torturously time consuming_, part of the job was rewriting the _books_. First Erestor had to get the leather for the cover, then the correct number of sheets of parchment—along with extra's for if he made one little mistake like spelling hobbit with one 'b' or mixing up 'confirm' with 'conform'—then he had to write out each and every page from the book with painful slowness—Erestor was now an expert in forging peoples signatures (Elrond's in particular), a skill that he was very proud of but would never admit to.

Erestor supposed it wasn't all horrible, as he sat at his oaken desk in his study, finishing the very last page to a particularly long and dry book about healing herbs with a flourish. There was a certain amount of pride and accomplishment that had never dulled over time that he felt when he finished such tedious work so perfectly. Erestor tried to imagine Elrond doing this kind of work and almost scoffed. Elrond was such a drama queen; always either playing the role of leader in a fight or the '_I need more bandages! If we don't stop the bleeding this patient will die!'_ Healer with every paper cut. The thought of Elrond sitting quietly, quill scratching for hours on something that was already written was absurd. _He couldn't handle it_, Erestor thought smugly.

Erestor put the old book in his desk for until he had the opportunity to dispose of it. He bound the new book together with deft and fingers. It was late into the afternoon before he was done, but as Erestor straightened out his desk and placed the rewritten book in the middle, his ink well and quill right beside it, it was totally worth it. _All it needs now_, Erestor thought, _is the title_. To be honest, he was surprised that he had forgotten, but it was a very daunting book, so he forgave himself. He opened the leather cover to the first page—which was blank, and waiting so patiently for its words to be written. Erestor dipped his quill in his ink, brought the tip to the page, and wrote in fancy and curling letters, _Herbs and Herblore, Healing Edition_. Erestor sighed in happiness. He couldn't wait to relax in the Hall of Fire with a generous glass of wine.

Elrond burst into his study without knocking. "Erestor, my friend, could you help me with this paperwork? There really is too much for one person, and—" He was already piling _all_ the numerous papers that he held haphazardly onto Erestor's previously organized desk.

"I'm sorry Elrond," completely insincere, "but I have been working all day. I shall not be touching a quill until at least tomorrow."

Elrond looked panicked. He held a few papers under each of his armpits, a quill in one hand and a full black ink well in the other. _So disorganized_, Erestor thought distastefully.

Elrond looked ready to start pleading—which Erestor was looking forward to—but before he could start there came the dreaded and urgent call of, "Healer! We need a Healer! Lord Elrond!"

Elrond started, dropping everything he was holding: the quill, the parchment, and… the ink. It didn't happen in slow motion, there was no way to prevent the inevitable. One second the book that Erestor had put so much time into was safe, its front cover still open to the title page for drying purposes, the next second Elrond's horrid black ink was seeping through the pages. The book was ruined. Erestor's jaw dropped so far that he imagined that anyone who had looked at him in that moment would have had a clear view to his uvula—which was disgusting and the reason that Erestor always tried to keep his mouth open at a more acceptable level.

Elrond didn't seem to notice.

All that elf did was run hurriedly out of Erestor's study, calling back to his lackey, "I'll need those forms done by tomorrow morning!"

Erestor hissed like an angry cat, but to his credit, he did not swear.

No, all Erestor did for the rest of his day and all through that night was Elrond's paperwork, and work on his re-rewritten _Herbs and Herblore, Healing Edition_. He did not forget though, and if Lord Elrond signature mysteriously ended up agreeing to King Thranduil's invitation for a festival, well… Erestor certainly didn't know how that happened. And Elrond just thought that he had had a lapse in judgement in consenting to being in the presence of the one elf he always tried to avoid.


End file.
